177
I got to my office, locked the door, opened the window and dropped the hook, attached to
the rope, down on to the suitcase. I snagged it the first throw. I hauled it up, then went over to
the safe. With the combination in my hand I turned the tumblers. I was working against time.
The desk clock showed five minutes to six.
I came to the last number, turned to it and felt the tumbler fall into position. Holding my
breath, I tugged at the handle of the safe. The door swung open.
I sat back on my heels and feasted my eyes on the contents. On two shelves were neat
packages of one-hundred dollar bills: stacks and stacks and stacks of them.
I pulled the suitcase closer, opened it and began to pack the bundles in. Two hundred and
fifty of them filled the case: it was the most awe-inspiring sight I’d ever set eyes on. There
were still another two hundred and fifty bundles left on the shelves. But they didn’t belong to
me. I left them right where they were. Before I slammed the suitcase shut I took three one-hundred dollar bills out of one package, folded them small and wedged them down the side of
my shoe. Then I snapped the locks, turned the keys and put them in my pocket. I shut the safe
door and gave the knob of the lock a couple of turns. Then I dusted the safe with my
handkerchief and stood up.
I was panting with excitement and my collar was a wet rag. The hands of the clock showed
six.
I took the suitcase to the window, leaned out and dropped it. Then I hooked the hook to the
window-sill and slid down the rope. When I reached the ground I jerked the hook free, coiled
the rope and hid it under a shrub. I picked up the suitcase and bolted across the lawn.
The trucker was just through loading up by the time I got there. He had signed off and was
getting into his cab. There was no one else around.
“Just in time, I guess,” I panted.
He looked me over, hesitated, then gave a resigned grin.
“Where to, mister?”
“Got a label?”
He found one.
I printed my name on it.
178
John Farrar,
Sea board Air-Line Railway, Grt. Miami,
To be called for.
He wrote out a receipt.
“Sorry to hold you up,” I said, and gave him ten bucks. “Keep the change.” He nearly fell
off the truck.
“I’ll take care of this for you, sir. It’ll be right there waiting for you.”
I hoped it would.
I stood back and watched the truck drive away. It made me sweat to think of all that money
going on that journey without me to guard every yard of it.
But she was right. It was the smart thing to do. If those two guards spotted the suitcase they
would want to know what was inside it: especially the green-eyed guard. He had it in for me.
I folded the receipt the trucker had given me into a narrow ribbon. Right now that scrap of
paper was worth a quarter of a million dollars. I took off my slouch hat and tucked the ribbon
of paper behind the sweat band.
Things were working out better than I had imagined. I had got the money out, now I had to
get myself out.
I remembered the .45 Colt automatic I had left in my desk drawer. I might need that gun, I
decided to get it.
